Typo
by shoefreak37
Summary: Your life was an essay on a journey well-lived, complete with introduction, body, and conclusion already outlined, written, and printed. That man was just a typo you could easily erase, and no one would ever know that you craved him. Slash/AH


**Author's note: So, I was trying to work on my multi-chapter fic **_**Tracking Redemption, **_**but I figured those guys could use some alone time. When faced with my blinking cursor this is what came out. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Also a warning…this is absolute smutty, slashy debauchery. Enjoy : )**

You didn't know where it had come from; you just knew you wanted it to go away.

You'd been married for three years. Your wife was beautiful, loyal, a wonderful mother. Your little girl was just learning to walk, smile, talk, and the joy you derived from it was unmatched. To everyone who cared to look, you were the perfect, loving, solid American dream.

But you knew better. You knew that when you settled down for the evening, lying next to your beautiful wife, listening to her breathing even out and grow deeper, that your thoughts would undoubtedly turn to him. Flashes of blonde curls, icy blue eyes, long dark lashes, straight muscled lines, full and pink and firm lips kept you awake. Your body hummed and throbbed; only phantom touches and imaginary kisses to soothe your yearning.

You rolled over in your bed, facing your wife. The moonlight spilled through the cracks in the blinds, creating silver lines across her peaceful face, her mahogany hair. The breathy cadence of her sleeping form was soothing. You watched her breasts rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. She wore a silk slip to sleep in, much of her arms and chest exposed. You could see through the slip that her nipples were pebbled, and you wondered what she could be dreaming about. She furrowed her brow and mumbled in her sleep, and you chuckled quietly; Bella always vocalized her dreams.

Tentatively, you reached out your finger tips, tracing gently around her already pert nipple, and she moaned slightly, arching her back. You inhaled sharply through your teeth, realizing that you did not wish to wake her. Even touching your wife in an intimate way could not rouse lustful feelings the way he could with merely a curl of his lips, a tiny laugh, or unintentional touch.

Remember the way his hand brushed against yours in the elevator? The smallest patch of flesh on flesh and your skin burst into a conflagration, leaving you a fiery mess, obviously burning to anyone who glanced in your direction.

But, hadn't you always liked women? Welcoming curves of hips and swells of breasts, smooth skin, and small hands were all things you had always wanted -- always pursued-- right?

Regardless, you looked forward to the tranquility of the house when all was quiet, except for the concupiscent moans of the man in your musings. Within the protective walls of your psyche, neither of you were shy with your vocalizations: panting, groaning, gasping, _screaming_.

Those bits and pieces of imagery that flew and bounced around your addled head never ran in sequential order. You couldn't visualize the act itself, only small snippets or teasers: a long, lean thigh, unyielding chest, bare feet, or splayed fingers on flesh. It was never enough, and, _God_, you wanted more; you wanted so much more that you wanted it to go away.

The months wore on, and still, you thought of him. You'd never heard his voice; you didn't know his name, but, in your impious dreams, he frequently called out yours. You always got passing glances, a smile and a nod, but never words, never anything tangible. He lived in the apartment next to yours, but he might as well have lived across the state; he was just as unattainable at either location.

Your life was an essay on a journey well-lived, complete with introduction, body, and conclusion already outlined, written, and printed. There were no deviations, no impromptu occurrences, no spontaneity. That man was just a typo you could easily erase, and no one would ever know that you craved him.

Except, he would not be erased. Time passed and you began thinking of him in waking hours. It became so encompassing that your real life seemed to be the façade, and your dreams were the reality. You became quick to anger, withdrawn, always left wanting.

Intimacy with your wife was not the same. When you touched her, held her, fucked her, you had to keep your eyes open, or it would've been him you slid into and fit with seamlessly. It would've been him that writhed and moaned. It would've been him that milked your climax, brought your pleasure, and left you spent.

Your days were passed with falsified chuckles and fakes smiles, save the one you gave him upon passing in the hallway or in the elevator. You were an automaton, performing tasks without thinking or feeling; you existed but did not live. The path that you had predestined for yourself was disintegrating, the road crumbling beneath your feet, and you fought, struggled, and toiled to keep it cemented.

Then that day the elevator stopped. You and he were the only passengers. The lights flickered before going out completely, and the blackness suffocated you. He was mere feet away, you could smell him, taste him in the slowly circulating air of the confined space you both inhabited. Your palms itched, and your mouth watered because he was close enough to touch and taste…close enough to fuck.

You shook your head, attempting to clear it of his heady scent and the licentious thoughts it enticed. Neither of you had spoken, and the silence was becoming oppressive. It was he who spoke first, his voice clear and clean like a frozen pond. He apologized for not having introduced himself sooner; he had been living next door for seven months and couldn't believe how rude he'd been. You laughed and asked if he'd really been living there that long; you lied so smoothly. Each day since he'd moved in had been counted by lazy smiles, nods, blue eyes, and masculine hands.

You introduced yourself, holding out your hand so that he could take it. The elevator was still dark, but your eyes had adjusted so you assumed his had, as well. Instead of taking your hand he just stared at it, a brief look of hesitation crossing his features. You started to pull you hand back when he abruptly took it in his, grasping it longer than would be considered friendly.

He pulled you in close to his body, his musky scent once again infiltrating your nostrils and spinning you out of control. You could feel his body heat, feel his breath on your face, hear him as he raggedly took in a breath before telling you he knew that you wanted him. He knew and he wanted you, too.

His voice was low and gravelly, it dripped with want and promiscuity like honey from a comb. He leaned in and traced the shell of your ear with his hot tongue, and your body responded immediately. You looked at him incredulously, momentarily balking at how out of control your dreams had gotten, until he unabashedly grabbed your rapidly hardening cock. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth half-open. You could see his tongue and could not rip your eyes from it. He noticed this and licked his lips slowly and purposefully.

He asked you if this was okay, and you knew it wasn't, but you didn't tell him that. You just answered his question by crashing your mouth to his, devouring his full, pink mouth, and searching out his tongue with your own.

His taste blanketed your mouth –peppermint candy and cigarettes—and you were convinced it was not some kind of delusional manifestation, because in your dreams, he always tasted like cinnamon.

But the reality was so much sweeter than all of the jumbled thoughts and flashes. Your body was alive for the first time in months as his hands were everywhere. Somehow, you had him pressed against the wall as you ground your hips against his, his arousal mirroring your own as you sighed and moaned at the wonderful friction, your cocks roughly being pressed together.

God, how did it happen to you? That man was everything and nothing. You had just learned his name, and he yours, but now he was unbuttoning your pants and he was palming your cock through your boxers and groaning into your mouth.

He asked you to touch him, so you did. Your pants were around your ankles, and swiftly his were the same. You pulled his boxers down and without hesitating wrapped your fingers around his weeping erection and stroked slowly. His cock was heavy and scalding in your hand, smooth and hard as steel. He moaned, low and long, throwing his head into the elevator wall, a thud echoing throughout the small space. You used the opportunity to devour his throat, nibbling and biting, leaving a visible trail of angry red blotches that satisfied you to see.

His hands firmly gripped your hips and pushed down your boxers, exposing you completely from the waist down. He followed-up by unbuttoning your shirt, finding your nipples, and squeezing them lightly. You loved the way that felt, and made quick work of his top and returned the favor.

Your mouth travelled to his chest and you reveled in the firm, muscled, hardness of it. Your tongue traced around his small nipples and you closed your lips around one, sucking it gently. He responded audibly so you added your teeth and bit down, flicking your tongue across the tip. You remember how salty his skin was don't you?

He told you how much he wanted you, and how long he'd wanted you. You told him you'd felt the same. Meaningless utterances flew from your mouth as he got to his knees and put those invitingly moist, shiny lips around your turgid cock. Your hands tugged and pulled at his blond, curly hair as you tried to control your hips. Before you could come, he released your erection, leaving you whimpering.

He asked you to fuck him, so you did. You pushed him up against the wall, bent your knees, and sheathed your cock deep inside his body. He was so hot, tight, and eager. You gave him a moment to adjust to your size before you began thrusting into him, your mouth finding his again; your lips, tongues, and teeth thoughtlessly, biting, sucking, licking.

One of his hands was on your shoulder, the other one around your middle. He brutally dug his nails into your flesh; you didn't mind, it only made you fuck him harder. Your hands were on his hips before you realized his cock needed attention, so once again you wrapped your hand around it, and pumped it for him.

The two of you moaned in tandem, gasping and clawing, bucking and thrusting, chasing that impending release.

You felt it happening, and told him that it was. It was building deep in your loins, his body beckoning it out of you, his lips asking you for it. Just when you thought it could not go any higher it did, and your body went numb for an immeasurable amount of time before you finally came with a shocked gasp, your breathing hitched; you panted wildy, but still you stroked his cock.

His release came seconds after yours, the sticky heat of his release coming out in spurts and you watched it in fascination as it covered his stomach and your hand.

You let his legs down easily, withdrawing your softening cock from his welcoming body, feeling as though you'd lost something. You held your hand out to the side as you helped him right himself.

He looked at your covered hand and laughed, grabbing it, and began running his tongue over it, cleaning off his own essence. You felt your cock twitch even though it was so recently spent. He brought your mouth once again to his, and then told you that it could all stay in there if you wanted. You thought it over as the two of you dressed, and decided that was for the best.

And, so, you left it there, your typo becoming a part of your story.

**End note: I know the POV is different so any and all feedback appreciated.**


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